When Gods Die sscm-2

by C. S. Harris

Given his previous interactions with Jarvis, Sebastian at first wanted to send the servant back to his master with the curtest of messages. Then he thought about Guinevere Anglessey lying pale and lifeless in the Prince’s candlelit cabinet, and he hesitated.

  “Tell your master Lord Devlin will receive him in the morning,” snapped Hendon, his jaw working back and forth in annoyance.

  Sebastian shook his head. “No. I leave for London at first light.” Wary but intrigued, he leapt into the carriage before the steps were let down. “Don’t bother waiting up for me,” he told his father, and sank back into the plushly upholstered seat as the footman closed the door.

  Chapter 3

  Charles, Lord Jarvis, occupied a suite of rooms at the Pavilion reserved specifically for his use by his cousin, the Prince Regent.

  The Prince’s love of the small coastal town of Brighton stretched back thirty years or more, to the days when he’d been young and handsome and even—although it bemused Jarvis to remember it now—popular with the people. The Prince still came here whenever he could, to bathe his bloated body in seawater and host an endless round of musical evenings and card parties, and plan a new series of extravagant extensions and decorating schemes for his Pavilion.

  At the moment, Jarvis’s rooms were fitted out with dragon-encrusted chandeliers, faux bamboo furniture, and peacock blue wallpaper decorated with gold-leafed exotic beasts. But before the end of the summer, the look might well have changed, perhaps taking on the lush aura of a sultan’s harem or a maharaja’s temple. Jarvis himself had little affection for the oriental styles with which the Prince was so enamored. But Jarvis understood better than most that the Pavilion—like Carlton House, the Prince’s residence in London—was the equivalent of an ornate set of building blocks in the hands of a fat, overindulged child. The endless rebuilding projects might be expensive, but they amused the Prince and kept him safely occupied so that wiser, saner men could get on with the business of running the country.

  Standing well over six feet tall and now, in his fifty-eighth year, comfortably fleshy, Jarvis was an imposing man. His size alone would have been impressive. But it was the power of Jarvis’s intellect that intimidated most men—his intellect, and the amoral ruthlessness of his dedication to king and country. The position of prime minister could have been his in an instant, had he wanted it. He did not. He knew well that power was far more effective and satisfying when wielded from the shadows. The current Prime Minister, Spencer Perceval, understood precisely how things stood, as did most of the other members of the cabinet. Only two men in the government ever dared to stand against Jarvis. One was the Earl of Hendon, the Chancellor of the Exchequer. The other was this man, the Earl of Portland.

  Drawing a delicately carved ivory snuffbox from his pocket, Lord Jarvis eyed the nobleman now pacing back and forth across the chamber’s green-and-gold Turkey carpet. A tall, loose-limbed man with an abundance of nervous energy, Portland had been Home Secretary for the past two years. He was generally considered a clever man. Nowhere near as clever as Jarvis, of course, but clever enough to be difficult.

  “Why are you doing this?” demanded Portland, the candles in the wall sconces gleaming on his auburn head as his long-legged stride carried him across the room again. “The magistrate has cleared the Prince of all involvement. Let that be the end of it! The longer this thing drags out, the harder it will be on the Prince. The doctors have already had to sedate him.”

  Jarvis lifted a delicate pinch of snuff to one nostril and sniffed. The Prime Minister, Perceval, had taken himself off to the chapel to pray, content to leave the sordid affair in Jarvis’s hands. But not Portland. The man was becoming more than a nuisance; he was becoming a problem.

  “The magistrate is an imbecile,” said Jarvis, closing his snuffbox with a snap. “As is anyone who seriously thinks the people will believe Lady Anglessey committed suicide by stabbing herself in her back.”

  Portland had unusually fair skin, nearly as fair as a woman’s, with a faint dusting of cinnamon-colored freckles across his high cheekbones. His skin often betrayed him as it did now, flushing with annoyance. “It is theoretically possible. If she positioned the dagger just so and then fell on it—”

  “Oh, please,” Jarvis shot back. “Half the people out there tonight already believe the Prince killed that woman. If we let the magistrate release this finding, all we’ll do is convince the other half.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. No one could actually believe the Regent capable of…” Portland’s eyes widened as if on a sudden thought, and his voice trailed away.

  “Precisely,” said Jarvis. “Everyone will be reminded of Cumberland’s valet. The inquest on his death returned a verdict of suicide as well, if you’ll remember. Only how many people do you suppose actually believe the poor sod slit his own throat? From left to right. When he was left-handed.”

  “Cumberland is a dangerous man with a violent temper. No one could deny that. But whatever else you can say about Prinny, he’s nothing like his brother.”

  Jarvis lifted one eyebrow in silent incredulity.

  Again, that faint flush of color showed beneath Portland’s pale skin. “Very well. Your point is taken. But why send for Devlin? He was cleared of all suspicion in those ghastly murders last winter.”

  “Officially,” said Jarvis, turning as his footman appeared in the doorway and bowed.

  “Viscount Devlin, my lord.”

  Jarvis could see him now: a tall, lean young man with dark hair and strange, almost animalistic eyes that reputedly had the power to see in the night with the uncanny penetration of a cat. Jarvis knew a moment of quiet satisfaction. He’d half expected Devlin not to come. He was a most unpredictable man, this Viscount; wild and dangerous and utterly, intriguingly brilliant.

  Jarvis cast a meaningful glance at the Home Secretary. “If you will excuse us, Lord Portland?”

  Portland hesitated, as if tempted to insist he stay. Then he bowed and said curtly, “Of course.”

  He strode toward the door, his lips pressed together into a thin line. But Jarvis caught the unexpected, speculative gleam in the man’s eyes before he nodded his head and said curtly, “Lord Devlin.”

  Chapter 4

  “Do come in, my lord,” said Jarvis, sweeping one arm through the air in an expansive gesture. He’d been blessed with a charming smile that was both disarming and often amazingly effective, and he used that smile now as the Viscount paused just inside the chamber’s doorway. “You’re surprised, doubtless, by the invitation. If I remember correctly, the last time we met, you held a gun to my head. And abducted my daughter.”

  Devlin stood very still, his face inscrutable. “I trust she suffered no lasting ill effects.”

  “Hero? Hardly. The maid, however, has never been the same since.” Lifting the crystal decanter from its tray, Jarvis held it aloft. “Brandy?”

  Devlin’s eyes narrowed. He had inhuman eyes, this young Viscount: as yellow and feral as a wolf’s. “I think we can dispense with the civilities.”

  Jarvis set aside the decanter. “Very well, then. Let’s not skirt around the issue. We’ve asked you here because the Regent needs your help.”

  “My help.”

  “That’s right. He’d like you to discover exactly what happened in the Pavilion tonight.”

  The Viscount laughed, his amusement short and sharp and faintly bitter.

  Jarvis kept his voice pleasant. “It’s not our intention to see you framed for this murder, if that’s what you fear.”

  “How reassuring. Mind you, it would be rather difficult, given that I never left the music room this evening.”

  “Yet there are those who whisper that your presence at tonight’s soiree was…shall we say, suggestive?”

  “Ah, I see. It’s in my own best interest to find this killer—is that what you’re saying?”

  “Something like that.”

  The Viscount wandered the room, pausing for a moment to inspect one of the mythical
creatures rendered in gold on the wall cloth. “If I cared what people thought of me, I might be tempted,” he said without looking around. “Fortunately, I don’t.”

  Jarvis smoothly shifted tactics, the smile fading, his voice becoming stentorian and grave. “I fear this murder comes at a critical moment in our nation’s history. Our armies are not doing as well as one might wish on the Peninsula, and there are distressing signs that this year’s harvest may fail. The people are restless. Have you any idea what a scandal of this nature might do to the country?”

  Devlin swung around, a disconcerting gleam in his strange yellow eyes. “I certainly have some personal knowledge of what it might do to Prinny’s already faltering popularity.”

  Reaching for the decanter again, Jarvis poured himself a brandy, then took a long, thoughtful sip. “I’m afraid this isn’t just about the Prince. You’ve heard what people are saying? That it isn’t only the King who’s mad? They’re saying the entire House of Hanover is tainted.”

  Jarvis had no intention of mentioning it, of course, but there was more to it than that. There’d been disturbing reports lately, of dangerous murmurs and furtive whisperings. Some people were suggesting the House of Hanover was more than mad, that it was cursed—and that England would be cursed, too, as long as the House of Hanover sat upon her throne.

  The Viscount was looking faintly bored. “Then I suggest you direct the local magistrate to lose no time in tracking down tonight’s killer.”

  “According to our most estimable local magistrate, the young Marchioness of Anglessey committed suicide.”

  Devlin was silent for a moment before saying, “Quite a feat, from what I saw.”

  “Exactly.” Jarvis took another sip of his brandy. “Unfortunately, the kinds of people who normally deal with these matters are simply too afraid of giving offense to their betters to be of any real use. What we need is someone who’s both intelligent and resourceful, and who isn’t afraid to follow the truth wherever it might lead.”

  He was no fool, Devlin. A faint, contemptuous smile curved his lips. “So bring in a Bow Street Runner. Hell, hire the entire force.”

  “If we were dealing with some murderous thug who’d come in off the streets, that might suffice. But you know as well as I do that something far more serious is afoot here. We need someone who is a part of our world. Someone who understands it, yet also knows how to track a killer.” Jarvis paused significantly. “You did it before. Why not do it again?”

  Devlin turned toward the door. “Sorry. I only traveled down to Brighton to spend a few days with my father. I’m expected back in London tomorrow.”

  Jarvis waited until the Viscount’s hand tightened around the knob, then said, “Before you walk away, there’s something you should see. Something that actually involves your family directly.”

  That stopped him, as Jarvis had known it would. The Viscount swung back around. “What?”

  Jarvis set aside his glass. “I’ll show you.”

  SEBASTIAN WAS NO STRANGER to death. Six years of cavalry charges, of slashing sabers and stealthy missions behind enemy lines had left him with searing memories of incidents and images that still haunted his dreams. He had to force himself to follow Jarvis through the door to the Prince’s cabinet.

  The fire on the hearth had burned down to glowing embers but the room was still warm, the stale air thick with the sweet scent of death. His footsteps echoing hollowly, Sebastian crossed the gaily patterned carpet. Guinevere Anglessey lay on her side, half sliding off the settee where the Prince had dropped her in his agitation. Sebastian stood before her, his gaze traveling the smooth line of her forehead and cheek, the delicate bow of her lips.

  She was very young, no more than one- or two-and-twenty. He had met her once, in the company of her husband at a dinner party given by Hendon. He recalled a beautiful woman with a quick wit and dark, sad eyes. Her husband, the Marquis of Anglessey, was close to seventy.

  Sebastian glanced back at Jarvis, who had paused, watchful, just inside the door. “The death of anyone so young is tragic,” said Sebastian, his voice even. “But it’s still none of my affair.”

  “Take a closer look at her, my lord.”

  Reluctantly, Sebastian stared down at the woman before him. The shimmering emerald green satin of her evening gown lay loose about her shoulders, its tapes undone, the bodice shoved down nearly to the tips of her full, smooth breasts. From this angle he could only just see the ornate pommel of the jeweled dagger imbedded in her back. But he had a clear view of the necklace that lay nestled in the shadows near the base of her neck.

  His eyes narrowed, his breath catching in his throat as he hunkered down beside her. His hand reached out as if to touch the necklace, only to curl back into a fist that he pressed against his lips.

  It was an ancient piece, wrought of silver in the shape of a closed triskelion and set against a smooth disk of the same darkly mysterious bluestone found so often in the enigmatic old stone circles of Wales. There was a legend that this necklace had once been worn by the Druid priestesses of Cronwyn. They said it had been passed down through the ages, from one woman to the other, the necklace itself choosing its next caretaker by growing warm and vibrating when the right woman held the old stone in her hand.

  Sebastian had been fascinated by this necklace as a child. He used to climb up beside his mother and listen to her soft, melodious voice reciting the old tale. He could remember holding the curiously wrought piece in his hand, willing it to turn warm and vibrate for him. He’d last seen the necklace at his mother’s throat, its burnished silver shining brilliantly in the sun as she waved good-bye to him from the deck of the neat little two-masted yacht a friend had hired for a lark one summer’s day when Sebastian was eleven.

  The afternoon had been unusually hot, the sea breeze a gentle breath of fresh air. But then the day had turned rough, dark clouds scuttling across the sun, the wind kicking up strong. The two-masted craft had floundered in heavy seas and gone down with all on board.

  The body of the Countess of Hendon—and the necklace she’d worn that day—had never been recovered.

  Chapter 5

  “It can’t be the same necklace,” said Sebastian.

  He didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud until Lord Jarvis answered him. “But it is,” said Jarvis, coming to stand beside him. “Look at the back.”

  Moving carefully, Sebastian flipped the triskelion, his fingertips just brushing the woman’s cold flesh. In the flickering light from the wall sconces he could see where the initials A. C. had been artfully entwined with a second set of initials. J. S.

  The engraving was old—not as old as the necklace itself, but still worn with the passage of the years. It had been well over a century and a half since Addiena Cadel had marked the necklace with her initials and those of her lover, James Stuart—the same James Stuart who later assumed the British throne as James II.

  Sebastian sat back on his heels, his splayed hands gripping his thighs. “How did you know?” he asked after a moment. “How did you know my mother once owned this necklace?”

  “She showed it to me one day when I happened to admire it. Its story is an intriguing one. Not the sort of thing you forget.”

  “And did you know she was wearing it the day she died?”

  A faint widening of the eyes was Jarvis’s only sign of reaction. “No. No, I didn’t. How…curious.”

  The memory of that cold brush of dead flesh against his hand nagged at Sebastian. Curious, he leaned forward to study the woman before him. Her fingertips were already turning blue, the muscles of her neck stiff with the rigor of death. Yet the skin of her face seemed unnaturally pink. “How long has it been?” he asked Jarvis.

  “How long since what?”

  “Since the Prince was found with the Marchioness in his arms. Two hours, would you say? Less?”

  “Less, I’d say. Why?”

  Reaching out, Sebastian rested his palm against Lady Anglessey’s smooth young cheek.
It was cool to the touch. “She’s cold,” said Sebastian. “She shouldn’t be this cold.”

  He glanced over at the glowing coals on the hearth. His years in the army had taught him only too well what the passage of time does to a dead body. Heat could accelerate the processes of death, he knew. But it should at least have kept the body warm.

  Jarvis took a step closer. “What are you suggesting?”

  Sebastian frowned. “I’m not certain. Have either of the Prince’s physicians seen her?” The Regent had two personal physicians, Dr. Heberden and Dr. Carlyle. They were rarely far from his side.

  “Naturally.”

  “And?”

  A derisive smile twisted the other man’s full lips. “Both supported the magistrate’s conclusion that she committed suicide.”

  Sebastian let out a humorless huff that was not quite a laugh. “Of course.”

  He rose to his feet. She still lay as he had found her, awkwardly curled on one side. Reaching out, he gently rolled her body toward him.

  The disarrangement of her satin gown had left her back essentially bare. There was something violently sexual, almost intimate, about the way the dagger’s blade disappeared into her dark, livid flesh. Sebastian drew a quick breath.

  Beside him, Jarvis was silent for a moment. Then he said, “Good God. She appears to have been badly beaten.”

  Sebastian shook his head. “That’s not bruising. I’ve seen it happen before, with soldiers left on the battlefield. It’s as if all the blood in a body collects at its lowest points after death.”

  “But she was lying on her side, not her back.”

  “It would be difficult to do anything else with that dagger in her,” said Sebastian. Gently lifting the blue-black hair that tumbled around her neck, Sebastian released the necklace’s clasp and eased the thick, intricate chain away from her throat. “There’s a surgeon of my acquaintance who has made a study of these things—an Irishman by the name of Paul Gibson. He has a surgery near the base of Tower Hill. I want him sent for right away.”